Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones...let's praise the NHS!

So a new baby has been born. A royal one. When a friend told me Kate had gone into hospital on Monday, I had to ask, Kate who? Anyway, suffice to say the new baby has a name, Louis.  Not to be confused with King Louis (of the Jungle) which was the only Louis my colourist had ever heard of. So is it Louis, as in the French Louis, or Louis as in the English Lewis? Who knows? I haven't listened to the news since the big announcement, so cannot verify. Anyway, my colourist was disappointed, as she thought they might have gone for something alternative like Milo. (Sign of a mis-spent youth watching Tweenies, obvs.)
So I nail my lack of royal-watching to the mast, as I deal with a week of broken bones. And what a pile there was. First up, or rather down for the count, was my dear friend Beverley who took a nose dive and broke her arm on the streets of London. An oblique fracture. Which to the likes of you and me, means vertical and exceptionally painful. Three and half hours in a fracture clinic today, she emerged with a state-of-the-art sling and the the stoical heroism of one who will learn to manage with one arm for as long as it takes.
Then our Lewis, playing rugby on Sunday broke his neck. To break one's neck was a threat that my mother issued as a warning to either of us venturesome children, with the implication that it meant death. Thankfully, in this instance, it has resulted in painkillers and a neck brace, plus a four-day stay in hospital. No more Rugby for Lew. But he will be fine.
Yesterday, at Slimming World, one of our members cycled, as usual, to our morning class, and collapsed upon arrival. An ambulance arrived within ten minutes, followed by a helicopter which whisked him off to intensive care.
In each case, the beleaguered National Health service playing a vital role in our daily lives. We should stop occasionally to count our blessings.

Milo says three cheers for the NHS and is hoping Meghan will name hers after him